


Breathing Ash

by madrabbitgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternative Canon, Canon Divergent?, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Fic, Dragon Sherlock, Fluff and Humor, John Whump, M/M, college meeting if you squint, creature AU, creature!lock, dragon drabble, dragon fic, magical au, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:35:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: At first, John thought someone’s pet had escaped.Was it a pet?It seemed too bright to be an ordinary lizard. And there were suspicious little appendages sticking up from it’s back. And it’s pale eyes-Honestly, John should’ve figured it out before the thing lit fire to his jeans, but his coursework had kept him fairly exhausted lately. Damn dragons.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 240





	Breathing Ash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadMags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMags/gifts).



> * Not beta'd exactly, gift for MadMags
> 
> * American author, not Brit-Picked

At first, John thought someone’s pet had escaped. 

After all, that bloke on the first floor had managed to smuggle in two snakes, a cat and a rabbit before he’d gotten caught by the landlord. He wasn't used to seeing lizards on a daily basis, but it was plausible someone’s pet escaped and was now staring at him sullenly from the other side of the bench. The vibrant emerald scaled little thing was no bigger than a fiver, perhaps just slightly larger, and it appeared to be bleeding. 

It inched closer to him. He tried to scoot away from it, but the arm of the bench dug into his side and prevented him from doing so. 

Was it a pet? 

It seemed too bright to be an ordinary lizard. And there were suspicious little appendages sticking up from it’s back. And it’s pale eyes-

Honestly, John should’ve figured it out before the thing lit fire to his jeans, but his coursework had kept him fairly exhausted lately. Yelping, John dropped his breakfast sandwich and watched as the little demon started to devour his bacon butty while he attempted to put out his flaming trousers.

Damn dragons.

Sighing, John scrubbed tiredly at his face. He wasn’t equipped to deal with dragons. 

“That’s really probably not good- you know what, I’m not a vet, I don’t even know what dragons are meant to eat,” John muttered. “I’m not even a doctor, just a student. Why are you bleeding?” He snickered to himself. “Find a short knight, hmm? Stole some tiny damsel, get yourself in a bit of trouble?”

He could have sworn the dragon was glaring at him and he watched a threatening plume of smoke puff out of it’s nostrils. John sighed. 

“You’ve picked the wrong student if you’re looking to have your wings patched up,” John told the creature. “I’m due in class in just a few minutes and I know nothing about dragons.” 

It didn’t look like it was listening to him. 

“You just think that by burning my jeans and eating my food you can bully me into missing class for you, well, you’re dead wrong,” John threatened. If it had eyebrows, he could have sworn it was raising one at him skeptically, as though to say, ‘of course I can, you can’t be that stupid, can you?’. John groaned. “How did you even get hurt?” 

The small dragon whipped it’s head around. Across campus there was a young man playing with an English bulldog. 

“Ah. Yeah, I never liked Trevor’s dog,” John lied. He actually had a strong fondness for the breed itself,although he knew Trevor’s bulldog had a history of biting anything that moved. In all honesty, it was probably Victor Trevor himself that John disliked more than the dog. More black smoke puffed out in a huff as the dragon looked back at him. John glanced down, lips pursed. 

“I suppose, this once, I could miss class. But I’d still have to take you to a vet,” John told it. It huffed threateningly. 

“Or, I guess I get to practice patching up a dragon,” John sighed again. The dragon made a happy trilling noise and abandoned the remains of John’s sandwich, climbing with sharp claws into the pocket of John’s jacket. It was warm, almost burning, as it burrowed against his stomach. 

“Git,” John swore. He threw away the remains of his breakfast, gathered up his bag and started back towards his flat.

***

Life with a dragon was interesting. He hadn’t meant to adopt a pet, and he surely wasn’t supposed to have one in his flat, but damned if he could figure out how to get rid of it. Part of him didn’t want to. His grandmother, before she’d passed away, used to whisper to him about how special it was to be chosen by a dragon as it’s keeper. Dragons were so rare these days that he hadn’t paid attention, but now that he had one, it was a nice reminder of one of the few family members John could tolerate for any length of time.

Weren’t dragons meant to be bigger?

Either way, it was nice to have a … pet seemed like the wrong word. Companion?

His flatmates didn’t like it. It creeped out the girls that John brought home and it scorched his homework. Sometimes he caught it stowing away in his backpack, discovering it only in the middle of class melting all of the pens in his bag.

It purred at him when he fed it. It curled up on his chest as he slept, puffing warm, smoky breaths towards his face. 

Downside, it burned anything with the Army logo on it. 

“You’ll have to find someone else to harass,” John told it. He scratched over it’s emerald green scales, feeling it rumbling in it’s chest. “You won’t be able to come with me, you know.” 

It gave him a look that was so skeptical, so doubtful, that John laughed out loud at the human expression. 

“You’ll get over it,” John teased. The tiny beast didn’t look so sure.

***

“Mr. Watson.” A man in a nice suit was waiting outside in the gloomy dark as John exited his final class of the day. He’d spent most of class worried about his little friend as the cold and damp seemed to cause the dragon to catch a bit of a cold. It had already burnt a hole in both of his pockets, forcing it to ride along on John’s shoulder. It hissed at the stranger.

“Erm,” John paused, angling the dragon-bearing shoulder away from the man. “Yes?” 

“Might we take a walk? I have a matter of some delicacy I’d like to discuss with you,” the man said. He tapped his umbrella on the sidewalk. 

“I’d rather discuss it here. Can’t be too careful, you know,” John said, unwilling to follow the man down a darkened street. The dragon on his shoulder tensed before sneezing out a miniature fireball. 

“I understand,” the man replied, shifting closer. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I hold a minor position in the government and part of my duties involves the behavioural studies of dragons. We’ve been tracking you for quite some time and know of your enlistment in the armed forces-” 

“Um, er, how- How do you know that? Your job lets you look into the enlistment history of random med students?” John asked, frowning. The dragon was puffing itself up, newly healed wings tense and quivering with rage. As it’s temperature rose, it started to burn John’s shoulder and it hissed. 

“Stop that,” John said, giving his shoulder a little jiggle.

“As I said, my position is related to dragon studies. Especially with their recent addition to the endangered species lists,” Mycroft was explaining calmly. John didn’t believe him. “That particular individual has attached itself to you and we’d like you to remain in London so we could further observe your interactions with it. The army has no objection to-” 

“You’re trying to get me out of enlisting? Over a dragon?” John asked incredulously, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. 

“If you require the statement to be further simplified, then, yes, that is what I’m suggesting.” Mycroft’s grip on his umbrella tightened. 

John snorted. “No.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft blinked. 

“I said no,” John told him firmly. The dragon’s wings dropped and it turned it’s head to stare at John. He softened slightly towards the animal and reached up to scratch it’s scaly head. “Look, I like him and all, but he’ll find someone else to bother once I’m gone. I can’t put off my plans, what I’ve worked towards for years, just because a dragon has taken a fancy to me. It’s an interesting pet-”

Mycroft’s head inclined and he tutted. “Are you certain you want to use the word ‘pet’?” 

“What else do you call it? John wondered, shrugging. The blasted beast grumbled and spit boiling saliva at John’s neck. “Ouch! Stop that! Look, no. Just no. He’ll be fine. He was fine before me, he’ll be fine after. Maybe he’ll find a lady dragon-”

The dragon shrieked. 

“Alright, or not,” John said, nervousness fluttering in his stomach. He’d never seen the creature behave in such a way. The dragon was having a fit, which would have been funny except his huffing and sneezing was burning John’s skin. 

“I see,” Mycroft said, brows knitting together briefly. “If that is your answer, then England will be proud to have you serve her, Mr. Watson. Have a nice evening.” 

The way he spoke it was with such disdain John was fairly certain he was being told to piss off.

The dragon landed a particularly molten hiss on John’s throat. “Hey! Oi! Stop, that are you- Stop!” 

With an angry screech, the dragon launched itself off of his shoulders and flew into the night, disappearing quickly into the shadows. John sighed. Well, his gran always said dragons were fickle things. No sense in postponing the inevitable good-bye, then.

***

The day John Watson met Sherlock Holmes was breathtaking. As he stood awkwardly in the lab, letting the tall, dark stranger rattle off everything about his life from his deployment to his injury, John could feel nothing other than awe. Those piercing, unnaturally green eyes saw everything about him and when he disappeared in a swirl of expensive wool, John looked over at Stamford, not really sure what to say. It was just as supernatural as finding a baby dragon outside of his medical school.

Living with Sherlock Holmes was less of a fairy tale. 

Seeing Sherlock work was brilliant. The way that he cracked complex cases faster than anyone was incredible. His brain was unlike any John had known, which left John feeling oddly protective of him. Whenever Donovan called him ‘ash breath’ (what a strange insult that was) John wanted to strangle her a little. He didn’t even regret killing that cabbie, as long as Sherlock was safe. 

He was not an ideal flatmate, though. He never hoovered. His bedroom stayed pristine, probably because he used the rest of the house as his personal laboratory. There were feet and fingers in with their carrots, there was acid in the coffee maker and there was something molding in the sink that John just didn’t want to think about. He took up all the space, including anywhere John happened to be occupying, much like a cat who didn’t want attention until you didn’t give it any. In the rare times John caught him sleeping it was always on the sofa and never in his perfectly acceptable bed. During these times, John would just chuckle fondly and gently cover him up with a throw before going about whatever he’d been doing. 

The cases, the takeaway, the violin at all hours of the night- John loved it. All of it.

He didn’t love that Sherlock turned out to be the brother of that annoying government git, but nothing in life was perfect. 

It was a little bit of a surprise when they started sleeping together. Not unwelcome, really, but there was no sex involved. It really was just sleeping in the same bed. During one very cold night, John woke to find Sherlock snoring away next to him, with his lanky arms gripping John like a favorite teddy.

“Sherlock.” John squinted, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes while also bringing Sherlock’s face into focus. “Sherlock? What are you doing?” 

The snoring stopped but John didn’t get an immediate answer. He nudged the man, noting that he was putting off an awful lot of heat. “You alright? You feel like you have a fever.” 

“Mm, no,” Sherlock told him. His voice, deepened with sleep, had dropped to an octave that shot blood straight to John’s crotch. Inwardly he groaned, but Sherlock was hugging him closer. “Cold, John. Go to sleep.” 

“Okay,” John acquiesced, too tired to argue. It wasn’t the strangest night he’d ever spent in Sherlock’s company. After that, it was not uncommon for him to find Sherlock sprawled over him in the middle of the night like his own personal electric blanket. Which was quite nice, actually.

***

John could do without being abducted every five seconds. He didn’t mind it as much when he was with Sherlock. The man had a knack for being able to escape almost every locked room they’d come up against, like some kind of modern Harry Houdini, especially if it was dark where they were being held.

He didn’t enjoy being locked up alone, though. There was really nothing to do and no one to talk to, and his head was aching from where he’d been hit. He’d put up a fight, which had been a bit of a mistake and there was some damage to his face, and his captors had only given him water for the last two days.

He felt like shit.

He was trying to get his head together enough to attempt to escape when he smelled something burning.

Was there a fire?

Was something burning?

Shit.

He didn’t feel like burning alive. It was unpleasant.

But then, the locks on the room where he’d been kept were bursting open and his insane flatmate was storming in, looking ridiculously heroic. Behind him, silhouetting him in the door, flames were busy consuming the entire building. John was sure he could hear screaming, but he was fairly certain he was concussed so he wasn’t entirely the best judge of what was happening. 

“Ah. Wondered when you’d turn up,” John said with a weak grin. Sherlock didn’t look amused. 

“Shut. Up,” Sherlock snapped, working at John’s bonds. “Idiot.” 

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I keep a genius around,” John joked, hoping Sherlock didn’t notice the slight slurring in his words.

He did notice. And later, Sherlock would inform John how very much he didn’t appreciate John’s sense of humor.

***

John woke up in the hospital with no recollection of how he got there. He had vague memories of the fire, breathing the smoke and people screaming and the blazing green eyes of his genius. But he’d also been vaguely tortured and those images could have been from the head wound.

What he did know, after the several minutes it took him to come back to consciousness, was that a dark head of curls rested on his aching body, facing away from him and that the owner of said head was drawing patterns on the bed next to John’s leg. It tickled a bit.

“... doomed from the start, as you’d say. Abhorrent use of cliche, but accurate. Dragons mate for life, you know,” Sherlock’s voice was rumbling. John knew that Sherlock often talked to him when he wasn’t there, but he’d obviously never witnessed it for himself. It made the corners of his lips twitch upwards despite the pain.

“Alright,” John said, and he regretted it. His voice was hoarse and aching. It was more of a croak, really. “What’s that got to do with anything?” 

Sherlock’s head whipped around and he stared at John with those brilliant green-grey eyes. “You’re awake.” 

“Only just,” John tried again. He shook his head and motioned for something to drink. Sherlock obliged him with an alarming amount of gentleness. 

“Smoke inhalation,” Sherlock told him. John tried to smile, but whatever he was doing with his face only seemed to unsettle Sherlock further.

“I’d thought I’d imagined that part,” John admitted. “But you found me. That’s all that matters.” 

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, but he was frowning. 

“Hey. Come on,” John said, managing to catch one of Sherlock’s hands in his own. He squeezed. “None of that. You look dead on your feet. Sit down, rest a bit. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

***

John didn’t have nightmares as frequently as he once did. He attributed it to Sherlock taking up residence in his bed (and every other aspect of his life, if he were being honest). There were times when he worried about Sherlock being there and possibly catching a stray fist to the chin or something, but it hadn’t happened yet.

This time when he woke, gasping for breath and sweating as though he really had been in the desert sun, he was, thankfully, alone. It took him a long time to push those images from his brain, forcing himself to calm down. When he did, he could have sworn he smelled something pungent drifting up from the living room. 

He found Sherlock on the sofa, chain smoking and staring into space. 

“Those things will kill you,” John scolded halfheartedly. He didn’t have the energy for a full on row. Sherlock smirked and took another long drag before stubbing the cigarette out in an ashtray. 

“My lungs can handle more than you think,” he replied. Sherlock’s eyes swept over John, probably reading the exact contents of his nightmare from the wrinkle pattern on his shirt and the creasing in his pyjamas. “Sit down, John.” 

John flopped down on the sofa. He let Sherlock maneuver him until he was sprawled over the detective, a reverse of their usual position, covered in a throw blanket. He felt perfectly toasty against his feverish flatmate. When Sherlock exhaled into John’s hair, a wave of ashy air washed over John and lingered in the air around him. 

“Must be why Donovan calls you Ash Breath,” John mumbled as he started to drift off.

Sherlock made a rumbling noise in his chest, muttering, “Idiot.” 

John was too comfortable to argue.

***

“Sherlock!”

John watched in horror as the detective tumbled off the bridge with the suspect. It was dark and dangerously icy. His feet slid as he raced to the ledge where he’d seen the detective disappear, staring down at the disgusting black water that raced beneath him. He would have gone in after them except Lestrade yanked him back from the edge.

“Come on, you getting hurt or worse won’t help him,” Lestrade said gruffly, pulling John off the rail. “His kind don’t take well to cold. We’ll need to find him fast.” 

“His kind?” 

Lestrade stared at him with wide, almost angry eyes, deducing John in his own methodical way. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, be kidding. Come on.” 

They found the suspect washed up on the bank a few miles down and no sign of Sherlock. The man was half-dead but the paramedics seemed to think he’d recover well enough. John shivered, searching the shore with the flashlight from his phone. Dread filled his bones. 

“John. John?” 

Lestrade’s voice didn’t seem strong enough to crack through the worry. 

“John!” 

Finally, John snapped around to glare at Lestrade, whose eyebrows were raised. He glanced meaningfully at John’s feet before back up at the doctor. John frowned and followed Lestrade’s eyes, looking down at his own shoes. 

There, glinting wetly in the glare of the flashlight, was a very familiar, very tiny dragon about the size of a fiver. It looked haughty, indignant and half-drowned.

It had Sherlock’s eyes.

John’s breath let out in a woosh of relief and he bent to extend his arms to the little beast. 

“You daft bugger,” John murmured once the dragon was settled on his shoulder, tucked as close to John’s neck as possible. 

“Take him home, John. We’ll get a statement tomorrow,” Lestrade said.

***

“Just like old times,” John thought as he fell asleep with the bedraggled dragon curled up on his chest. Being wet and cold had left him with a chill that had John worried. Despite the angry look and several sharp bites, John had won the Battle of the Bath and washed the filthy river water off of his friend before they settled into bed. When John woke, there was a very real, very warm man draped over him. Sometime during the night Sherlock had turned back into the man that John had grown so fond of. He let his hands wander, stroking over Sherlock’s strong arms, feeling soft skin where there was once sleek scales.

“Feels nice,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s chest.

“Hmm.” John let his palms splay over Sherlock’s bare back, hugging him close. “We’re probably going to have a row later of you thinking it was a good idea to plunge into a river with a serial killer in January.” 

“Potential serial killer.” 

“Potential serial killer,” John allowed with a sigh. He turned his head, letting his nose run up Sherlock’s neck, inhaling the smoky smell that lingered near his throat. “Still going to have a row.” 

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock hummed. “You know my methods, John. Besides, it’s never been an issue before.” 

“Yes, however, I seem to recall a pet that I had in Uni that was quite susceptible to the cold-” 

Sherlock snorted, hiding his smile against John’s shoulder. “I’m not your pet.” 

“Debatable. I patch you up, feed you when you can’t be arsed to feed yourself,” John teased, and he allowed himself to press a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw. The first kiss he’d landed on the detective, but at this point, they were too close to resist. “I take you for walks when you’re bored. Sounds like a pet to me.” 

“Idiot,” Sherlock said. 

“Ponce.” 

“Mate,” Sherlock sighed happily, biting John’s shoulder. 

“It’s bad form, you know, to marry someone decades ago and just never tell them,” John teased, smacking at his friend. Sherlock chuckled, wriggling closer. 

“Hmm, well it’s bad form to enlist and leave your _pet_ at home,” he replied. John grinned and pursed his lips thoughtfully. 

“My pet dragon,” he agreed. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock, the taste of ash lingering on his breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank to so much for reading! 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


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